Tales of terrible flatmates
When my partner and I became home owners at 27, it was the first time we had lived by ourselves.
The best thing about buying your own house is not having flatmates.
For most Kiwis, flatting is an essential part of life. We don’t all have the luxury of living alone so we put our fate in TradeMe’s hands and scroll flatmate wanted ads.
Sometimes you win and get a friend for life. Other times you end up living with a couple who treat the flat like a brothel.
When my partner and I became homeowners at 27, it was the first time we had lived by ourselves.
No longer did we have to wait for the bathroom, clean up other people’s messes, or listen to flatmates do things other than bathing in the only shower in the house.
The last experience before living by ourselves was definitely the most, er, interesting.
I had arrived in Vancouver stone cold broke. Looking to save money, my partner and I found a room for $500 a month living with a polyamorous couple; they had more than one partner. When we first met them they kind of said it really blase´ in passing.
‘‘Electricity is included, we’re in an open relationship, help yourself to the coffee.’’
I thought, ‘oh like open communication. If we have a problem talk to them about it, that’s cool’. I very quickly found out that is not what they meant.
The girl, let’s call her Sarah, would drop the boy, let’s call him Brian, off on dates. While Brian was at work, or on said date, Sarah would bring someone over while we awkwardly sat in the lounge turning the TV up on full. It was a small flat so no matter where you were you’d hear what was going on.
One night they invited us to a games night. It seemed harmless and was at the flat anyways so we couldn’t really say no.
They were inviting some of their ‘partners’ – plural. My partner, singular, and I sat on the couch not making eye contact, not touching, while what ensued in front of us was a lot of touching and a lot of eye contact.
They’d have their hand on one person while making out with another. Five of them in a row. My partner and I went to our room very early that night, not talking, trying to process what we just witnessed.
Did we just have front row seats to what some may refer to as an orgy?
Although that situation topped the list, in 10 years of flatting I have lived with some doozies.
At 17 I moved to Christchurch with my best friend, resulting in my now strict ‘don’t live with friends’ policy.
We were young, naive, and thought we were indestructible. We were wrong.
It took only six months for it to all blow up in our face.
My non-confrontational demeanour clashed with her very confrontational demeanour. She was particularly confrontational towards our two other flatmates.
It all hit the fan over a boy one of the flatmates was seeing who my pal decided she wanted.
My non-confrontational 17-year-old way of handling it was to hide in my room, blast emo music, and hope it would fix itself. It did, she moved home.
As I write this I am learning I got myself into a lot of these situations in the hunt for cheap rent and paid the price. Which is exactly what happened when I ended up sharing a flat with seven others in New York.
The guy who rented out the rooms also lived there and was close to 40 and hadn’t worked in 10 years. He talked a lot about different ‘projects’ he had going on.
At first he seemed really generous. He had connections apparently, had met Jay Z even, and could get me an internship anywhere in the city’s media industry.
He was full of it. The only ‘experience’ he could give me was alphabetising his record collection in the basement. That was a foot in the door according to him.
Later I learned he had offered everyone else in the flat that same ‘foot in the door’ and, surprise surprise, it had got them nowhere.
At a flat in Christchurch we got a bit of an unwanted flatmate in the creep next door.
It’s strange to look back on now, as it seems so long ago, but at the time it was crazy and resulted in one flatmate having to get a restraining order.
His window looked down on to our lounge. The curtains would appear closed apart from a tiny gap for him to look out of. As he got braver, the gap got bigger.
He got more confident and would dance at the window calling out to us.
Eventually he began shouting our names discovering them after going through our mail.
When we moved out, we found out he had come into the house the day we left and punched holes in a lot of the walls.
Owning your home can be stressful with massive bills, responsibility, and constant things to work on.
But at least there are no orgies taking place, friendships ruined, con artists, or creeps. In my house anyway.
We haven’t got rid of all the flatmates however. We’ve still got Lola who frustratingly wees on the floor. Lola is a dog.